Structural Damage
by BJArthur
Summary: "So what happened? Last thing I really remember was the pool." Sherlock's lips thinned and his grey eyes hardened. "I shot the vest." Sherlock and John escape the pool house and Moriarty, but only just. picks up where TGG ends.
1. Prologue

i'm a bit nervous posting this. it hasn't exactly been edited. and i've never written anything quite like this before. this is but one of many possible out comes of what might have happened if Sherlock had shot the vest in **TGG**. i've had to do a lot of research (a _whole_ lot) and i've tried to get as many details correct as possible. chapters will vary in length but hopefully never too much. i'm also going to try to stick close to canon (but not too close, obviously). anyway, here's the prologue.

* * *

The first thing John realised upon waking was that the buttons of the shirt in front of him were really shiny. It was a silly thing to think of, but it was what came first. Then, that the shirt was white with spots of darkening pink. And pulled tight across the torso wearing it. A bit too tightly, perhaps. John wondered how the person wearing it could breathe properly without popping all those shiny buttons right off. Maybe the fabric had more stretch to it than it seemed.

"John," a deep, velvety voice filtered through the foggy mess covering his ears. It sounded lovely, though far away. "John, can you hear me? John, I need you to blink if you can hear me. Blink now, John."

John blinked, but it was more of a reflex than because the voice told him to. The world was spinning and spinning and spinning and the only things that were keeping still were those blasted shiny buttons. It was impressive, really, how much he simply didn't care about whether he was dying or not. Because he could have been. The last thing he remembered before taking that quick leap into the abyss-like unconsciousness was being thrown face first into a swimming pool, the bomb blast sending him faster and farther than he had initially jumped. And he _had_ jumped; he had jumped at _Sherlock_, intending to protect his lanky friend as well as he could. That was his job after all, when he wasn't at surgery.

"John," the voice started again, and it was sharper than it had been before, "an ambulance is coming but I need you to stay with me. Don't fall asleep, John." There was a bit of panic in there.

John blinked again and carefully moved his focus up the chest hovering in front of him. If his eyes moved too fast, they'd roll out of his head. And his stomach would roll out of his mouth. Those would be bad, so slow movements it was. The face he landed on – beneath the soot and scrapes and drippy blood – was one he knew.

"Sherlock," John said, or tried to anyway. What came out instead was a pitiful and pain-inducing groan. Bloody hell, his chest hurt. A quick and unintentional self-eval brought the conclusion that in fact _everything_ hurt. So then maybe he _was_ dying. Lucky for John, the abyss back came to swallow him up again even though Sherlock was ordering him not to fall asleep.

* * *

When John woke up the second time, the world was dark. It felt fuzzy and warm and his brain had turned into soft bouncy goo. He couldn't feel anything and that was A-Okay by him. He could faintly hear the persistent beep of the heart monitors through the haze of heavy medication. There was a mask thing over his nose and mouth, making him think vaguely of Darth Vader. If he could feel his mouth, John might have smiled. But he couldn't so he drooled a bit instead. A large, dark something was slumped over one side of his bed and pale, bony fingers were wrapped around his own. The large, dark something had curly black hair and John thought of Sherlock before he fell asleep again.

* * *

so there it is. it might not seem like much now, but more is coming i promise. please tell me what you think! and as ever, Believe In Sherlock :)


	2. Chapter 1

so this is chapter the first. and really, thank you to everyone who reviewed/fav'd this story so far. i kinda feel like i'm making my way through this one sorta blind and your support is great!

* * *

Sherlock sat in the dark, watching his flatmate rest in the bed before him. He should probably have been in his own bed and the night nurse would most likely squawk at him when she came in for her rounds, but Sherlock didn't particularly care. John was quiet and pale, looking like death beneath the bruises and bandages. Sherlock was – for various reasons including, but not limited to, occupational hazards – used to being swaddled in gauze, and ignoring deep body aches was nothing new. But seeing John lying there, so still, was disturbing. Sherlock's flatmate had been unconscious for three days since he had been moved from the OR Theatre to the ICU in a medical-induced coma. The nurses had dialled back his pain medications so he could wake up today, but so far John had remained unmoved.

Sherlock felt a strange and horrible sense of failure when he looked at the man sleeping in his hospital bed. It was distressing to know that John was broken, never to be really _whole_ again. Sherlock wanted his flatmate, his _friend_ back. He wanted the reassurance of tea and jumpers, of giggling over crime scenes and staying up all night to cull through evidence boxes. But those things couldn't happen now, possibly not for a long time, because so many things had gone wrong that night at the pool. Too many.

John shouldn't have been there. He should have been safely tucked away on Sarah Sawyer's lie-low, or sofa as the case might have been. The fact that he had been at the pool indicated forced sedation, which was something Sherlock was not pleased about. John shouldn't have tackled Sherlock into the pool, either; shouldn't have caught the brunt of the blast. This wasn't a matter of physics so much as Sherlock's distaste in seeing John injured. It had started with returning to the flat only to realise that John had been kidnapped, and compounded by seeing him tied to a chair bleeding in the tramway. Since the Black Lotus case, Sherlock hadn't been able to stomach the idea of John being hurt.

Along that same vein, John shouldn't have been buried under layers of rubble when the roof caved in. Sherlock kept reliving the moment when he heaved himself out of the water and saw one of John's hands sticking out from under the rocks and rafters. He should have been able to delete the image; it wasn't supposed to haunt him the way it did. Sherlock should have tried harder to protect his only friend. He shouldn't have gotten caught up in the grandeur of Moriarty's game. He'd almost lost John because of it, and John was irrevocably changed.

And Moriarty should have taken the plans when Sherlock handed them to him (embedded with a tracking-virus that would lead Mycroft right to him), not tossed them into the pool. He should have played his little game with Sherlock and left John alone. He shouldn't've had so many snipers on them. He most certainly shouldn't have let Sherlock shoot the Semtex vest.

That was one of the things Sherlock kept coming back to. Moriarty was a powerful man, a brilliant mastermind. He had stayed one step ahead of Sherlock the entire time he was playing the bombing game. Why had he let Sherlock shoot the vest? Several options came to mind.

1) Moriarty wanted Sherlock and John out of commission but still in play for the long run. He had plans for them eventually, but needed them out of the way for the moment. What better way to achieve this than to have them both hospitalised for an indeterminate amount of time?

But there were too many variables with this. There was no way to know the extent of the blast, the length of the injuries sustained. As far as Sherlock could tell, there was no way for Moriarty to protect himself from the blast any more than there was for Sherlock and John to be protected. And Moriarty was closer to the vest than either them – it was like playing chicken with a train (a phrase Sherlock only knew because he'd heard John say it during a phone conversation with his sister). This led to option number two.

2) Moriarty was trying to kill himself. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Moriarty was tired of playing his games. He'd had a long and illustrious run and was looking for a way out. If he was killed in the bomb blast, then it wouldn't look like a suicide because he seemed to be betting on Sherlock chickening out and not taking the shot. But he had, killing (or at least severely injuring) Moriarty. This didn't make any more sense than the last option, though.

Moriarty had taunted Sherlock into not shooting him when he had the chance. And no one could fake that sort of glee, that type of pride in his work. Moriarty was very proud of what he'd done and would want recognition for longer than just an evening. He had orchestrated four puzzles and potential bombings (five, if John was included), creating an intricate picture of only a fraction of the power he wielded. Moriarty had also been tense at the thought of Sherlock shooting the vest. It was almost as if he hadn't counted on Sherlock pulling the trigger. Which led to the third option.

3) He hadn't actually planned on Sherlock shooting the vest. Moriarty, for all his games and chess and power, hadn't guessed that Sherlock would put the life of himself and his partner at risk by detonating a bomb of that calibre. This was the most troublesome option as it was an indicator of Moriarty's fallibility. The Irish terrorist (for that's what he was) had played for so long and at such high levels that he had lost his ability to see what was in front of him. Moriarty no longer saw the little moving pieces of his game – he was only looking for future moves. The devil was in the details and Moriarty was blinded to them.

If that was the case, and the summation of all the evidence pointed towards it, then that was how Sherlock would finally beat the criminal mastermind. Sherlock made his living off of seeing the little things, the eloquent things – Moriarty was all sweeping gestures and grandiose movements. Why else would he strap five innocent people into bomb vests just to catch the attention of one man in all of London? Or have ten-plus snipers on two men in a public pool? Or be surprised at the fact that Sherlock – experimenting Sherlock who had to try everything at least once – would take the chance at shooting the vest and that John – ever-faithful John, who invaded Afghanistan and chased criminals around London now that he was home – would be completely okay with it.

So Sherlock would catch Moriarty. That would be the end of it. John would recover and Sherlock would put an end to the man, the _monster_, who had threatened them. In the meantime, Sherlock would wait for his friend and do something that he hadn't done since he was a child.

Sherlock put his head down on John's bed, grabbed the man's motionless hand, and he prayed.

* * *

we will learn the extent of John's injuries next chapter. i just really hope this all makes sense. please review? and as ever, Believe In Sherlock :)


	3. Chapter 2

and now for chapter the second. this is when i start hoping that all the research i've done for this hasn't been for nothing. it's a slightly-longer-than-normal chapter, seeing as i won't be able to post anything for the next two weeks. Thanksgiving and work and everything. i don't think the next few will be this long.

* * *

The next time John opened his eyes, it was daytime and things were much clearer. Whatever drugs they had given him had worn off enough for him to be aware of his surroundings. He could feel the IV lines in the backs of his hands, the heart monitor pinching his finger, and the oxygen mask over his face. Nothing hurt really (pain medication still mostly doing its job), but he did feel a slight tugging sensation where he'd been bandaged up. John knew what hospital he was in (Bart's ICU) and why he was here in the first place (Semtex vest, Moriarty, public pool, major explosion). John couldn't move his head too much (nausea) but letting it drop to one side didn't need that much effort.

Sherlock was next to his bed in a wheel chair, dressed in his pyjamas and blue robe, with one leg propped up on the footrest. One side of his face was bandaged a bit and his unruly dark curls looked like they'd been hacked at by blunt garden sheers. In his lap was a small pile of folders – probably cold-case files from the NSY, to judge by the insignia on the front of them. There was a mobile IV rack next to him, attached to the back of one of Sherlock's hands. His other hand was shaking as it turned the pages in the file, the fingers individually wrapped instead of the common gauze-mitten that hand and finger injuries more commonly received. The other bed behind Sherlock was rumpled and there was a tray of untouched food on the rolling table stationed next to it.

"Who'd you bribe to wrap your fingers?" John asked, his voice a tired croak. His brain was still feeling a bit slow. Sherlock's head jerked up, grey eyes widening.

"John."

John managed a weak smile behind his oxygen mask. "How long was I out?"

"Too long," Sherlock sniffed, rolling himself closer to the bedside. He had to pause between movements to drag the IV rack with him; it was probably the most awkward John had ever seen his flatmate move. "In fact, I'd say you were late."

"Well, pardon me." John adjusted the mask over his face so it wasn't in the way when he spoke. "So what happened? Last thing I really remember was the pool."

Sherlock's lips thinned and his grey eyes hardened. "I shot the vest."

"Yeah, I got that bit. How'd we get out? I think I remember seeing you for a moment, but everything's a bit fuzzy."

Sherlock took a deep breath and winced. _'Must've hurt his ribs, then,' _John decided.

"I shot the vest – it blew up. As it did, you threw me into the pool. I landed in the water. But the blast hit you harder so you… overshot. The roof came down and… and you were under it. I managed to avoid most of what fell into the pool, but a few sizable chunks of ceiling were inescapable. I have hairline fractures on three ribs, a hyperextended knee and a concussion to show for it. I also have what I know to be minor burns, but the idiots here are determined to wrap me up like a mummy." Sherlock gestured to his face bandage with his injured fingers, giving a dissatisfied huff before continuing. "When I managed to get myself out of the water, I dug you out as much as I could. You were unconscious when I first found you but as I heard the rescue crews arrive, you woke up. Just for a moment." Sherlock looked unsure now, troubled even. "Maybe I should call the doctor in to finish the rest, John. I'm not… equipped to handle this sort of thing with the delicacy you may believe it requires."

That seemed wrong. There was nothing that Sherlock couldn't handle – this was Sherlock Holmes, with his great massive intellect. He may pretend to be an emotionally stunted bugger, but John knew Sherlock better than anyone. "You must have hit your head pretty hard to think I'd believe that."

"John, I really don't think –" Something in Sherlock's tone made a sinking feeling start in John's stomach. Sherlock never hesitated to bandy about the things he knew. Why would he start now?

"Please, Sherlock." Sherlock studied his friend for a long moment, then gave a jerky nod. His voice was stilted and stiff as he began the litany of John's injuries.

"Due to the blast, you have minor burns along your left side, as I have them on my right. When the roof caved in on top of you, you suffered internal damage including broken ribs and bruised organs, though nothing was punctured too deeply; a few blown disks in your spine; dislocated right shoulder; and two broken legs. Your right leg was broken in three places, including ligament damage around the knee. You have pins in it, as well as in your ribs to keep them in place. Your left leg… your left leg was crushed beyond recognition of a limb and had to be amputated from the knee down. Everything else will heal."

John went completely still. He dared not even breathe. Amputated? His left leg, from the knee down. No, that's… that was something that happened to soldiers in combat zones. And he wasn't in a combat zone, not any more. He was _former_ Captain John H Watson, M.D., of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, occasionally lifted out to the Commandos wherever they were stationed. But he was honourably discharged and invalided home over eight months ago, removing him from the danger of IEDs and fire-fights. Now he was a doctor with a boring office job and a crazy flatmate. He fought in a different kind of war now, one with rooftop chases and puzzles and severed heads in the fridge. He didn't… he didn't _get amputated_. It wasn't possible – had to be some joke.

Maybe it was Moriarty still, come up with some weirdo ray gun that made people _think_ John had lost his leg, when all the while it was still attached and dandy. No, that sounded crazy; that was something out of a sci-fi movie and couldn't happen in real life.

Maybe it was Sherlock just being… Sherlock. Doing some sort of social experiment to see how John, as a former combat surgeon, would take the news of having lost a limb. And it was his left leg, the leg that used to have a psychosomatic limp. Made the most sense to experiment on a leg that had proved psychologically problematic before, right? Had to be Sherlock, then. So if John looked and saw his legs, stretched out before him under the hospital blankets, he'd be able to call Sherlock out on his nonsense. It was a shitty joke to play on someone but they'd still laugh and once they were released, John and Sherlock would walk out of the hospital like they had never been hurt. It would be wonderful and normal and they could forget all about this amputation garbage.

John carefully turned his head (nausea still, though perhaps a different sort now) and gave an uncomfortable grunt when the muscles in his neck protested. He looked down and there were his legs, exactly as they should be. Except…

Except the lumps were wrong. His right leg was out from underneath the blankets, a solid white cast covering him from toes to thigh. There was a funny looking blue hospital sock at the end of his foot to keep his toes warm. His left leg was under the blankets and… and the blankets were suspiciously flat after the knee. A medical term floated across his mind: unilateral transtibial amputation.

"Nono," John murmured, horror growing as he stared at the empty space where the rest of his leg should be. "No." His left hand tightened on the covers, ready to throw them off and see what was really under those blankets. He had to _see_, had to know without a shadow of a doubt.

A long fingered, pale hand wrapped around his wrist before John could act.

"Don't, John." Sherlock's voice was soft now, and sad. And it was weird because Sherlock wasn't supposed to be soft or sad. "Wait until you're stronger. Let me call your doctor in and he'll explain everything, far better than I could. But please John, don't. Not yet."

"But Sherlock –" It was _his leg_; John had to _know_. Didn't Sherlock understand that?

"John." And Sherlock's eyes were so grave, so earnest, that John simply had to loosen his hand on the blankets. "Thank you," Sherlock nodded, reaching over to push the call button. A nurse appeared in less then a minute.

"Ready to get back into bed, Mr… Dr Watson!" Pretty, blonde, and incredibly tired, the ICU nurse for their room walked over to John's bed and snatched up his chart, comparing his recorded vitals to the machines he was hooked up to. "It's good to see your eyes open, Dr Watson. You were supposed to wake up yesterday."

"He had intensive surgery," Sherlock answered for John, who was still struggling to get himself under control. Sherlock didn't remove his hand from John's wrist. "And he isn't as spry as he used to be. Sleep was necessary."

"Can I get that in writing?" John croaked, grasping for some kind of normal in the sea of crazy he had woken up in. "And you just said I was late."

"Well, you were."

"I don't mean to interrupt, gentlemen," the nurse said, moving to the end of the bed to finish her notes, "But now that Dr Watson's awake, I'm going to have to call your doctor in. This means that you'll have to leave for the time being, Mr Holmes."

"I'm not leaving John."

"Mr Holmes –"

"I'm not and that's final. If you have any concerns about this, you are free to call my brother. I'm not leaving John." Sherlock's voice was the cold crack of a whip – hard and final.

The nurse looked at John. "Dr Watson? Would you want Mr Holmes to stay?"

John, feeling very unwell, gave a little shrug. It wasn't really up to him; Sherlock was Sherlock, after all. But the hand on his wrist was some comfort, an anchor when his world had been blown apart (pardon the pun). "Once Sherlock makes up his mind…"

The nurse (Brenda, her name tag said) took a slow, deep breath and nodded. "I'll notify Dr Malcolm and place a call to your brother, Mr Holmes. If you're going to stay in the room while Dr Malcolm examines Dr Watson, we'll need it on file that you're allowed."

"Do what you need to," Sherlock decreed with an imperial toss of his head. "I'm not leaving John."

The nurse raised a hand (_whatever, you wacko – stay here if you like_) and left. John tool a few deep breathes and cleared his throat.

"What, um… what about Moriarty?"

Sherlock sniffed and loosened his hand on John's wrist. This was more his area – information and deduction. "We don't know. No other persons were found, but he was too close to the blast to have come away unscathed. Working theories assert that the snipers got him out before the first responders arrived."

"Right."

Naturally the snake would manage to slither away.

* * *

Mycroft arrived with Dr Horace Malcolm, who seemed a bit dazed at the threatening force of the elder Holmes. The doctor was some ten years older than John, of average height and weight, with wireless glasses over dark eyes. John remembered him a bit from when he was a med student, but not well enough to be familiar.

"I hope you understand that this… this is quite against protocol –" Malcolm stuttered, hands shoved in his coat pockets. He really didn't like breeching patient/doctor confidentiality, even for the British Government and its kid brother.

"They'll find out what my file says anyway," John sighed, closing his eyes. Part of him was hoping this was all just a dream that he would wake up from, that any moment he'd open his eyes to be back at Baker Street healthy and _whole_. "We're just saving them the trouble."

"If you're sure, Dr Watson." Malcolm sounded dubious at best and John shook his head against the pillow.

"Call me John, Dr Malcolm. I'm not a doctor here."

"Alright, then: John."

Malcolm began his initial exam of John, peeling back bandages and replacing them with fresh ones, cataloguing the injuries John had suffered as he went. He mostly repeated the list Sherlock had said. As a professional, however, Malcolm was able to add what organs had been punctured and repaired, which discs had been reset, and where the pins in John's ribs and right leg had been placed. He then listed the antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medications they were pumping John full of, and how they were going to wean John off the pain medication.

"Right now, everything looks good. I'm going to put you in for a few more x-rays and a CT Scan so we can see if that bump on your head has had any permanent negative effect, but so far… it all looks normal."

"My leg." It burst out before John realised he'd opened his mouth. John's leg was distinctly _not_ normal. "What… what's going to…" Malcolm's face softened and he leaned a hip against John's bed.

"We can't do much right now because of the stitches and swelling," Malcolm began, sounding gentler and less cavalier than he had previously. "Also, your other leg is still healing which sets us back some. Brenda has already started performing small exercises, stretches and the like that won't put much strain on the rest of your injuries, to help increase circulation and reduce the risk of limb stiffness. Once the rest of you has healed enough, we'll move you to HDU* and you'll begin physiotherapy to strengthen your knee and hamstrings on your residual limb. After your incision has healed and your physical therapist and I feel you're ready, usually around the six month marker, you'll be fitted for a definitive prosthetic limb. You'll undergo movement training prior to that with a preparation prosthetic so you can get used to it, find your balance and such.

"As this is a… a _major_ life change, John, and given your previous medical and military history, I've put in a request for psychological counselling. Dr Anne Qureshi will be by later today to speak with you. She's a specialist in traumatic injury counselling and has extensive experience with soldiers. I know you had been seeing a Dr Ella Thompson, and if you'd like to continue seeing her –"

"No," Sherlock cut in, shaking his head. "She's rubbish."

"I believe, Sherlock, that John may want to answer for himself," crooned Mycroft from the corner chair.

John blinked at the wall. His mind was blank. This was really happening and he wasn't waking up. He had been drugged, kidnapped, strapped into a Semtex vest, threatened, blown up, crushed and amputated. Now he was going to have to learn how to walk again. Everything was swirling around in his head and nothing made much sense. Sherlock's hand on his arm was an anchor, but it wasn't doing much at the moment.

"I… I thi-… um…"

Malcolm reached out and carefully placed a hand on John's elbow. "John, I know this is a lot and you're going to want time to process this. But I need to know that you understand what I've told you."

"I… I get it. I mean, I understand. Doctor. Thank you. I just… I need some time to myself. Please."

Malcolm nodded and gave John's elbow a comforting squeeze. "Alright then. Dr Qureshi will be in around tea time, I think. If you need anything, press the call button and your nurse Brenda will be by to help." Dr Malcolm excused himself, leaving the three men to their thoughts.

The room was silent – carefully, cautiously silent. Then Mycroft stood.

"Come along, Sherlock," he said, coming around the bed to collect his brother. "Let's leave John to himself for the moment."

"I'm not leaving John," Sherlock protested, the grip on John's wrist tightening. John shook his head.

"Sherlock, please. I just… just give me some time, even a little bit. I need…"

Sherlock's nostrils flared in irritation, his lips whitening as he pressed them tightly together. "I will take one circuit around the halls; that's fifteen minutes. When I get back, I'll tell you about the cold case files Lestrade sent." Sherlock moved the folders from his lap to the bed side table and wrapped a hand around his IV rack.

"Once around the building, Mycroft," he directed, sitting back and weaving a hand in his brother's direction. If John wasn't feeling so numb, he would have laughed. Mycroft shook his head and placed the handle of his umbrella over his arm before gripping Sherlock's wheelchair.

"I'll walk slowly, John."

"You absolutely will not," Sherlock squabbled as his brother pushed him out the door. John listened to them picking at each other and then closed his eyes.

This wasn't a dream. He had lost his leg. And now he was going to have to deal with it.

* * *

*HDU is the High Dependency Unit, a part of the Intensive Care Unit for patients who require an increased level of care but are aware enough to interact with their care providers. at least that's what i was able to understand. and my goodness gracious, please let me know if this makes sense. and as ever, Believe In Sherlock :)


	4. Chapter 3

chapter the third! and it seems kinda long. i apologize for the super-paragraphs and the lack of dialogue. it would only come out this way. perhaps it's a 'sorry-for-the-week-break' present. anyway, enjoy.

* * *

Harry didn't visit. Despite the voicemails and texts Mycroft had left on her phone. John decided not to be surprised. He didn't have time for her drunken ramblings anyway.

Molly did visit, though. It was guilt, mostly – she had been the one to date the psychotic serial bomber, after all. But she brought updates on bodies that were brought to the morgue with her and those kept Sherlock entertained for a while, at least until he was told that under no circumstances was he allowed to leave the floor and go see them for himself. Molly fetched the complete files on them, though, and tea for John as an extra 'I'm-sorry-my-ex-almost-boyfriend-tried-to-blow-you-up' gesture. What John liked most about Molly's visits, however, wasn't the guilt-laden tea or over-precise paperwork on dead people. It was that all her 'ums' and 'ahs' and strange comments were in no way about his leg. She was just as delightfully awkward as she ever had been but didn't treat him any differently that she had before.

The same could not be said for Lestrade, who also visited with some frequency. Not as frequently as Molly, but on a fairly regular schedule. The Detective Inspector brought with _him_ more cold case files for Sherlock, which really was more than anyone could ask for. Sherlock had an extra special way of climbing the walls from his wheel chair that made the nurses on their floor want to push him down a flight of stairs and any distraction was welcome. Lestrade had a hard time with John, though. Lestrade's eyes kept straying to the empty space underneath John's blankets, and he would get an incredibly uncomfortable look on his face. While John was thankful that he kept Sherlock busy, he often wished the Detective Inspector wouldn't actually come by. For all that John was learning to 'deal with' his new disability, he still didn't want to know how awkward his friends felt about it.

And 'dealing with it' was not something John enjoyed anyway. 'Dealing with it' hurt like someone was shooting steel drivers up into his knee, even when John wasn't doing his exercises. 'Dealing with it' meant sitting and talking with the lovely, exotic (and regrettably older) Dr Anne Qureshi and trying not to dwell on how useless he was to Sherlock now. While he was lucky she hadn't prescribed him anti-depressants, John hated 'dealing with it.'

Sherlock was released from the hospital a week after John woke up. It was absolutely for the best, according to the nurses on their floor. The shaking in his hand had stopped by then and the burns were healed enough that the doctors felt he could go home. Sherlock still needed a knee-stabilizing leg brace and had to hobble around using a crutch, but that would also heal in time. Provided, of course, that the consulting detective didn't put too much strain on it and kept up with his own prescribed exercises. John would be incredibly impressed if that were to happen, given his friend's ability to take care of himself.

"I'll come by soon, John," Sherlock promised before he was discharged. "Lestrade will have some case or other that's out of his depth and he'll need me."

"Right." John didn't have much to say about that – it wasn't like he'd be going on adventures any time soon. And he didn't actually expect Sherlock to keep him updated, much less actually remember to visit. Cases had a tendency to progress quickly and Sherlock gave each case that he took his singular focus – everything else was forgotten once he was on a trail. Including John on more than one occasion, so he wasn't expecting too much this time around.

Especially since Moriarty was still at large. The creepy lizard-man had been worryingly silent on the 'Get Sherlock' front, which could mean a few different things. One, he was badly injured and couldn't terrorize anyone for the time being. Seemed most likely considering how close to the bomb he had been at the time of the explosion. Two, he wasn't that badly injured but was taking smaller jobs, biding his time for the Grand Finale. Also likely, seeing how determined he'd been to impress Sherlock. Three, Moriarty had died in the blast. Mycroft would have said something if this were true, though, so John wasn't betting on that one.

Not that John would be of much help anyway. Not only was he stuck in the hospital for the next few months (thank Mycroft's wallet), but he wouldn't be up to running around London for a full year. He might be able to help a bit with tea and making sure that Sherlock ate the odd meal, but that was it. And when he did finally leave the hospital, he would be moving much slower. Just living with Sherlock required an amount of energy and movement that John would be unable to sustain for some time.

Sherlock didn't need John, not really. There had never been any indication that Sherlock depended on him for anything. And once he was released, John would depend too much on someone to help him get around; help that he was quite certain Sherlock would be too busy to give. So, with a heavy heart, John began flipping through the classified listings to look for a new flat. It was the least painful option he could think of. John certainly couldn't stay in London and watch Sherlock go on without him. A large city would be too difficult to move around in anyway, at least while he was still healing. A nice suburb, however, would be big enough that he wouldn't go mad but small enough that he could still get places without too much trouble.

John decided on Whitehaven, to the north; it was where his mother's family was from and he remembered liking it when they visited for holidays when he was a boy. It was also far enough away from London, Baker Street and Sherlock that John wouldn't have to be constantly reminded of what he'd lost along with his leg.

Unknown to John, Dr Qureshi had noticed her patient's plans (he really shouldn't leave out papers with things circled in red if he wanted them kept a secret) and cornered Sherlock as he was being discharged from St Bart's.

"Mr Holmes, I would ask that you make regular appointments to see John while he is here recovering."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Do you believe I'll simply abandon him, doctor?" Sherlock sneered, not appreciating the implication that his loyalty to John was in question. Dr Qureshi, never having been one to frustrate easily, didn't ruffle.

"I don't believe you'd mean to, Mr Holmes," she continued carefully. She didn't want the taller man to think she was attacking the integrity of his bond with John Watson. "But John has told me a little of your time together before the explosion, how you would concentrate on the case alone and forsake all other details until the mystery was solved. I will not tell you that is a negative quality to have, for I'm sure you have found a great many criminals that way. But what I ask is that you don't lose sight of John and his progress while you are searching for those criminals. Concentrate on him as well, if you can."

Sherlock's respect for the therapist rose at her explanation. She wasn't asking him to change, after all, and seemed aware of the importance of his work. But still.

"John is a grown man and he understands that The Work comes first. I refuse to behave differently and I won't treat John like a child. Both are insulting."

"I'm not saying handle him with kid gloves," Dr Qureshi said, her voice pitched softly to avoid being over heard in the crowded hallway. "You are right: John is an adult and a strong man, more than capable of handling himself in most situations. He also holds you in very high regard. Your interactions with him… I don't think they defined John, but they have been and continue to be extremely important to him. His recovery will be faster, I believe, and easier if he knows that you're waiting for him, that you still see value in him." Sherlock still looked reticent, so she gave him one last piece of advice.

"The mind is a funny thing, Mr Holmes, and John will not be able to keep up with you if he doesn't think you want him to."

* * *

The first thing Sherlock did upon returning to 221B (aside from removing the ridiculous leg brace) was to start reorganizing his and John's possessions. With the help of Mrs Hudson and whatever lackeys Mycroft sent over (beaky bugger had to stick his nose in everything), all of John's favourite teas, mugs, and jam were moved to the lower shelves of the cupboards. Sherlock wasn't very surprised to see that the flat had already been repaired from the 'gas leak explosion' that started the whole fiasco – Mycroft again. If Sherlock's brother was good for anything, it was getting things finished in a felicitous manner. Annoying git was always on time.

"Don't forget the banister, dear," Mrs Hudson reminded Sherlock as he went around shuffling his possessions. "It's loose, you know, and it wouldn't do for poor John to take a tumble."

"Thank you for the reminder, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock intoned, "but please don't refer to him as 'poor John.' He will be fully capable of most activities once he returns."

She was right about the banister, though, and thinking about the stairs reminded Sherlock of the twenty more leading up to John's bedroom. John would have trouble enough lumbering up the seventeen steps to the main room of the flat; he shouldn't have to worry about more just to get to bed. Coming to this conclusion, Sherlock began the laborious task of switching their rooms. Sherlock spent most of his sleep cycles on the couch anyway, using his bedroom for more of a convenient hide-away spot.

So Sherlock's sock index, anatomical bee lithographs, and perfectly tailored Spencer Hart suits were moved to the upper floor bedroom. John's jumpers, denims, and the biscuit tin containing his certificates and medals were moved into the main floor bedroom. Sherlock was surprised at how little John actually owned. He knew better than anyone how quickly people accumulated things – things that described their likes, dislikes, their existence. Even Sherlock had them – a paperweight here, a picture of Mummy there. But, perhaps due to his time in the Army and his distance to his own family, John had very little in the way of accoutrements. Sherlock decided that part of the switch would be to have his old room painted a soft blue, a colour psychological studies said was 'relaxing', for John. And Mrs Hudson picked out ivory curtains for him, as Sherlock was taking his heavy black-out ones with him upstairs. It wouldn't be much in the way of 'John-things', but it would help make the space more 'John' (at least, that's what the studies on personal space said).

During all the moving and reorganizing, Sherlock thought very closely about what Dr Qureshi told him. John needed other people to think he was going to get better in order to make a full recovery. Sherlock didn't know quite what that meant, so he read more studies about other amputees and how they coped with the change in their life. Children tended to make fuller recoveries than adolescences and adults, mostly because they were still creating their self-image and their bodies were still in that elastic stage of forming. Teenagers and adults, if not shown exactly the correct amount of support (don't smother, but don't ignore), had an inclination towards depression and maladjustment. This was how John was before they became flatmates – depressed and maladjusted to civilian life, after over five years in the military – pointing towards the fact that John didn't just need support, but direction as well to keep him on an even keel. Sherlock was more than willing to provide both.

Upon coming to the conclusion that John would in fact benefit from being in Sherlock's presence (for truly, who wouldn't), the world's only consulting detective began coming around to the HUD every day. It was never at a set time, and not even always during actual visiting hours, but Sherlock _would_ always show up. Though how anyone could hobble discreetly with a leg immobilizer and a crutch (neither of which Sherlock would use if Mycroft didn't make him), John would never know.

And Sherlock didn't seem to share John's concerns with how they'd live and work together after John was released from the hospital. Every time he came, Sherlock spoke as if John were coming home the next day. Whether he was explaining a case that he was working on or telling John about the HDU nurses' secret lives, Sherlock always referred to the fact that John would be returning to their Baker Street flat in the near future.

However, that sort of talk did not jive with John's view of their future. In fact, John's view was startlingly different than Sherlock's.

"Why do you do that?" John asked one afternoon about a month after the explosion, incredibly uncomfortable with the way Sherlock was speaking. "Talk about things like I'm coming home tomorrow or whenever. You know it'll be at least another month before I'm released.*" Sherlock shrugged.

"You will be coming back to the flat sooner rather than later, whether you choose to believe it or not. I am merely speaking the truth."

John sighed and looked out the window. Trying to reason with Sherlock never got him anywhere; to John, it was blatantly obvious that he was not only going to be uncomfortable in the flat at Baker Street, but that he would be a burden to Sherlock as well.

"Sherlock… I've… I've been thinking."

"One of your more dangerous past times, John, when it's not about our case work."

"Well… ahem, it is about your work, if a bit indirectly." _'Best not to drag it out, John,' _he told himself._ 'It's like a plaster – just rip it off.'_ "I've been looking at first-level flats up in Whitehaven."

Sherlock blinked, not seeing the connection. He knew that's where John's family was from, but didn't see how that pertained to their work.

"We do our work in London, John, and Whitehaven – while lovely, I'm sure – is much too far for us to commute as needed." John shook his head slowly.

"One person, first-level flats in Whitehaven."

Sherlock blinked again as the pieces began to fit together and sat back in his chair. John was looking to leave him. John wouldn't be looking to leave if he thought he could still be useful – that wasn't how John was made. So John would only be leaving, be looking to move clear across the country, _only_ if he no longer believed Sherlock needed him. Was this what Dr Qureshi had meant about John needing Sherlock's support? "Do you believe I would not want you to come home once you were released from this place?"

"Sherlock-"

"Because if you do, I must inform you that you are grievously mistaken. Have I not been doing enough? I come by every day; I keep you up-to-date with the cases I'm working on. I inquire after your day even though it's always the same tedious cycle of sleeping, eating, therapy and physiotherapy. How, in any of that, did you get the idea that I would permit you to _move out_ once you were set free by those tyrants who call themselves your nurse staff?"

"Sherlock, it's not about you permitting me to do anything. I…" John floundered for a moment, feeling empty and sad. "I don't fit in with your work any more. I can't keep up with you, literally. I'd fall over if I tried."

"It won't always be that way. And even if it were, I'd pick you up – you know I would." The answer seemed glaringly obvious to Sherlock, but John shook his head.

"No, Sherlock – you'd keep running after the bad guys. As you should. But I can't and you don't have time for me to lag behind."

"I have seen you every day!" Sherlock bellowed, lurching into John's face. He was absolutely furious; it was almost as if John was being stupid on purpose. "I hate that you force me to repeat myself, John, but you aren't listening to me. I want you to _come home_ – it is a very simple concept. Even _Anderson_ could grasp it. You will be coming back to our flat at the end of your stay here and that is the end of it. You will stop your search for a new place of residence. You will choose a prosthetic that allows you not only mobility, but the speed and agility required for The Work. You will not leave, John."

John couldn't have known how terrified Sherlock had felt after the bomb went off at the pool. Seeing John's limp body, almost lifeless and mostly under the rubble, barely breathing. Having to dig out his best friend, his _only_ friend, from the wreckage of the pool house was something that had shaken Sherlock deeply, making him realise that whatever Moriarty might throw at them, Sherlock could not lose John. The ex-army doctor had somehow made himself essential to the consulting detective, and any course of action that led to their separation was incomprehensible. Sherlock would not accept John's resigning their life together.

"You will not leave," Sherlock repeated, his voice deep and raw. His eyes were riveted on the edge of John's bed where his hands were fisted in the blankets, knuckles white. In fear? In anger? Sherlock wasn't sure. With great effort, he loosened his grip.

John, who never had expected that sort of emotional outburst from his friend, paused. It hadn't occurred to him that Sherlock would fight John on this, not like this in any case. Obviously, he was wrong. Slowly, John's hand covered Sherlock's. The work-worn fingers rested on the white knuckles lightly, and Sherlock could still make out the shapes of John's callouses. There were new ones now because of how much John had to do in physiotherapy, but the ones he remembered (from his gun, from his pen) remained.

"Alright, then." John nodded and swallowed hard. "Alright."

So when John was released at the end of the month, it was Sherlock who stood behind him, arms carefully stretched to catch his flatmate and best friend in case he fell or stumbled walking up the seventeen steps to their home.

* * *

*at least another month…: we're going to pretend that the NHS works that way. Honestly, I have no idea, but Mycroft's Magic Umbrella makes it so. and you know, i'm not sure if the show actually gave Sherlock black-out curtains, but they seem like something he would have. anyway, i really hope this came out okay. please review and as ever, Believe In Sherlock :)


	5. Chapter 4

so chapter four is going up before tomorrow, but i'm going away and won't be able to put it up in time. texts at the end are in day/month/year format. just no one's confused.

* * *

Meetings with Dr Qureshi were hard. Not mind numbing like they had been with Ella, but difficult all the same. Ella's way of 'therapy' was to sit quietly and wait for John to make the first move, which would result in them sitting in complete silence for an hour. And on top of it all, Ella would blame John, siting 'trust issues.' But John didn't have 'trust issues.' Right before meeting Sherlock, John thought that he might have something _like_ 'trust issues', but then there _was_ Sherlock. John wouldn't have moved in with someone, much less would have killed for someone, after only knowing them for one day if he had 'trust issues.' What John had issues with was being treated like a child. Which was what Ella did.

Dr Qureshi, on the other hand (who, according to Sherlock, was half-Saudi on her father's side, the youngest of three siblings, and divorced after fifteen years of marriage), treated John like an adult; one who had experienced a major and traumatic life change, but an adult all the same. Dr Qureshi told him about facts and figures regarding below-the-knee amputees, jobs and health options available to him now, and daily activities he was able to do (including climbing and running). She asked him questions regarding what interested him about all of that information, and she must have gone to the Holmes School for Reading People because she never let John get away with lying about anything. She gave him pamphlets and packets of material.

"I want you to know, John," Dr Qureshi told him in her softly accented voice, "that just because your leg is gone doesn't mean that your life has to change all that much. There are many opportunities open to you still, and I want to make sure that you know you have access to them."

"I appreciate that," John nodded. "Especially as right now my life revolves pretty much around trips to Tesco's and walks in the park, outside of physio and here."

Dr Qureshi frowned a bit. "Your friend, Sherlock – have you not been working with him?"

John shifted in his seat, readjusting the way his khakis fell over his incomplete leg. His trousers all had to be pinned up on that side for a while; at least now he had the prep prosthetic to fill some of the space.

"He'll bring case files home, but it's not really the same. Usually by the time he's thought to do that, he's already solved the case and he just wants me to fill out the paperwork for him."

Dr Qureshi seemed to nibble on the inside of her lip for a moment while she thought. "I know that you don't like talking about your feelings, John, specifically how you feel about Sherlock. So I won't ask that question. What I would like to know instead is how you feel about the amount of work you are contributing. And I am asking because I am a little worried that you don't feel… your true value in the situation."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting his head fall back a bit so he could look at the ceiling. If only the answers were written up there, easily accessible for him to repeat. But out of respect of the effort Dr Qureshi was putting into his mental health, and in reciprocation of the care Dr Qureshi showed him, John suffered through and he told her something he worried about.

"Most of what I contribute to Sherlock's work is just telling him what he already knows. Sherlock is incredibly confident that things will just… go back to how they were. Eventually. But… how am I supposed to work with him now? Our life before… before the bomb was gunfights in museums, running from Bobbies, and hiking all over London in rain or shine. But now… you know, it'll be more than a year before I'll be able to even _attempt_ running? Walking up the stairs to our flat has me seeing stars – which I'm told is normal. He switched our rooms because he knew I wouldn't be able to make it to the second floor. So how am I supposed to keep up with The Work when I can't even make it up the stairs? When are things going to go back to _normal_? But… but they aren't. They'll _never_ be that way again. And until I get my permanent prosthetic, I can't do much of anything."

John's face tightened. He really hadn't meant to say all that. But when he opened his mouth, it was like he had word vomit; it was almost like turning into Molly.

"I understand that can be very difficult," Dr Qureshi said, and somehow John believed her. "You are right, John: things cannot so easily become what they once were. But you don't have to leave your old life behind entirely. Is Sherlock doing anything else to help integrate these changes to your lifestyles?"

John didn't really know what to say to that question. They still spoke about cases. John still made tea and cleaned up around the flat. Sherlock still flounced around the living room in his robe, or around London in his great coat, solving mysteries and being a jerk. Things had changed – how could they not – but John didn't know how to put what _hadn't_ changed into words. It was an adjustment that John couldn't describe, so in the end John just handed her his phone instead. Maybe she'd get it if she saw it for herself.

* * *

_13.11.2010  
TO: John [See attached photo. Does this look like rope burn? - SH]  
ATTACHED: IMG-153_

**13.11.2010  
TO: Sherlock [No. Its horizontal chemical burn and you know that already – JW]**

_13.11.2010  
TO: John [Irrelevant. Needed second opinion. – SH]_

**13.11.2010  
TO: Sherlock [Second opinion? – JW]**

_13.11.2010  
TO: John [Anderson. – SH]_

**13.11.2010  
TO: Sherlock [Gotchya – JW]**

* * *

_27.11.2010  
TO: John [Lestrade wanted a medical opinion. COD? – SH]  
ATTACHED: IMG-154, IMG-155, IMG-156_

**27.11.2010  
TO: Sherlock [From here it looks like blunt force trauma to the occipital and parietal bones – JW]**

_27.11.2010  
TO: John [As I suspected. See attached photo. – SH]  
ATTACHED: IMG-169_

**27.11.2010  
TO: Sherlock [Is that Anderson in a dinosaur hat? – JW]**

_27.11.2010  
TO: John [Deduce. – SH]_

_21.11.2010  
TO: John [Isn't it said that laughter the best medicine? – SH]_

**27.11.2010  
TO: Sherlock [Tell Anderson hes useful for something then – JW]**

_27.11.2010  
TO: John [Heaven forbid. – SH]_

* * *

_1.12.2010  
TO: John [We've run out of milk. –SH]_

**1.12.2010  
TO: Sherlock [How sad. What do you want me to do about it? Im at physio – JW]**

_1.12.2010  
TO: John [Mrs Hudson is out. Tell Lestrade to get me milk. – SH]_

**1.12.2010  
TO: Sherlock [Dont be a berk, Sherlock – JW]**

_**1.12.2010  
TO: John Watson [Did you tell Sherlock to tell me to get him milk? – DI Lestrade]**_

**1.12.2010  
TO: G. Lestrade [You really think Id do that? – JW]**

**1.12.2010  
TO: Sherlock [I cant believe you did that! – JW]**

_**1.12.2010  
TO: John Watson [No, but you can never be too sure with his majesty. – DI Lestrade]**_

_1.12.2010  
TO: John [Was worth a shot. – SH]_

**1.12.2010  
TO: Sherlock [Using you for target practice, thatd be worth the shot – JW]**

* * *

i'm still not entirely sure i'm doing this right. i mean, does the chapter flow make sense? from the Prologue to chapter 4, is every thing clear? have i missed any bits? next chapter will be John and Sherlock at home, and we'll see Sherlock being... well, Sherlock. and yes - i know i've thrown the show's timeline out the window. to that i say pooh-pooh. anyway, please review and Believe In Sherlock :)


	6. Chapter 5

fifth chapter. i'm not sure if i like this one, but some parts are cuter than others. and you'll see me stretching my research muscles again. hopefully it makes sense. also, thank you everyone who has reviewed so far. it's really great to get feed back!

* * *

John had physiotherapy three days a week. The instructor (a bear of a man named Stan) really put John through his paces and it was absolute shits. There were stretches and bends and sit-ups and push-ups; upper body strength and learning to move his centre of gravity to one side so John didn't end up falling over. Working with a wheel chair was fine while he was still at St Bart's, but after he got out John needed to practice with a walker and then a cane. It was almost worse than basic training back when he joined the Army. At least then, his body was young enough to keep up with everything. Now he was older, softer, and everything cramped up: his shoulder, his hands, his thighs and abs.

And John bruised like a peach now. It was the blood-thinners, which he'd probably be on for the rest of his life. Dr Malcolm seemed to think they'd be able to wean John off of them, but John was a doctor and well aware of how difficult that was. Complications from going off the medications could start as early as two weeks after. Thank goodness his fashion style already leaned toward jumpers and long-sleeved shirts – John didn't want anyone to think he'd been on the wrong side of a fight. The blood-thinners also made his muscles ache – he wasn't getting enough potassium or magnesium because the medication was using so much. Vitamins and slight diet change helped some but didn't get rid of the pain entirely.

But at night, it was the phantom limb pain that kept John lying awake. Sometimes, it felt like his left foot had fallen asleep and he had to move it to get the blood moving again. Other times, it was like his left calf was on fire. It wasn't every night that happened, which John was eternally thankful for. He really hated taking his pain medication, especially for a pain that wasn't even supposed to be there. John had dealt with medication addicts – his rota in the A&E had exposed him to all sorts. So John tried to stay as far away from his pain medication as possible. Which kept him awake on the bad nights.

That wasn't the hardest part, though.

The hardest part for John was looking at his stump. He needed to unwrap it and message it for fifteen minutes three times a day, and it was wretched. The stump was scarred, bruised, and looked like something out of a Frankenstein movie with all the stitching. It was both rough and smooth under his hands, from the scabbing and scar tissue and callouses already forming from rubbing against his stump socks. He had almost thrown up the first time he had gotten a proper look at it. John could handle the phantom limb pains, PT aches, working with a preparation prosthetic – but one look at his unbandaged stump and it was like the world was ending all over again.

Because of all of this, John was absolutely churlish after his physiotherapy sessions. He didn't make tea, he complained loudly about whatever mess he decided Sherlock had made that day, and he usually spent the next hour and a half in his room napping or lying down until he felt human again. Sherlock (if he was around and not working on a case) would wait until after the nap, then make tea and leave it on John's bedside table. It wasn't always drinkable – Sherlock hadn't quite grasped the art of tea making yet. Most of the time, the tea ended up being too strong or weak, had too much sugar or not enough milk, but John was thankful for the gesture all the same.

And while John cringed at even the thought of his amputated leg, Sherlock thought the stump was fascinating. Since John had come home and was managing, he desperately wanted to study the remains of his friend's leg. It was something new about John, something he didn't know completely, and Sherlock's brain itched to gather as much new information as he could. He had seen amputees on Molly's table in the morgue but there was something about a fresh specimen, about a _John_-specimen – that got his brain going. He had already catalogued everything he could from John's preparation prosthetic and the wrappings. Sherlock wanted, _needed_ to know more.

Amazingly, though, Sherlock did not invade John's privacy or personal space for this. Meaning, of course, that all studies were done in the safety of his old bedroom while John was at Tesco's. And he was surprisingly respectful of John's sensitivity regarding his leg. Sherlock found that, as much as he wanted to know absolutely every detail about the amputation and stump, he simply couldn't press John too hard. As much as he thought about it, Sherlock could not make himself go over to John and demand to inspect the remains of his leg. It was incredibly frustrating for him, this strange _sentiment_. But also a bit of a challenge – how long could Sherlock go without knowing everything he wanted to know about John's leg? Four months and he hadn't cracked yet. Though god knew he wanted to.

One evening, John was performing his nightly rub down on the couch when Sherlock swept in from outside.

"Absolutely mind numbing this evening, John," Sherlock sighed dramatically, doffing his coat and scarf. "One has to wonder how Lestrade maintains order over such an unreliable unit."

"He does a fairly good job, I think, considering," John said, adjusting the long board under his leg. It made him sit lopsided, but he had to keep his stump straight. If he didn't, it might swell and cause all sorts of issues.

Sherlock looked over, a sneer and mouthy retort at the ready, but stopped once he saw John.

Really, he should have realised that John was doing his nightly massage – he could smell the menthol crème from the front hall, see the bright orange sock in a ball next to John, the towels spread out so nothing smeared. John was wearing a pair of ratty lounge pants and an old, threadbare t-shirt – clothes from his Army days that seemed to fit again. Well, perhaps not the shirt if the way it stretched across his chest meant anything (and Sherlock didn't want to think about that so he buried it immediately. Nothing about John could be deleted – Sherlock had tried).

Though he dreadfully wanted a closer look at the appendage, Sherlock paused and redirected himself to the kitchen. John was surprisingly difficult about people seeing the remaining limb, and by god Sherlock was going to show restraint. So he did what John did when he wanted to do something but couldn't – Sherlock started to make tea. For John, naturally. But the leg was so _interesting_; he couldn't stop himself from taking the occasional peak around the corner.

John didn't stop working the muscles around his shortened limb, but he did glance at the kitchen door way. Sherlock had gone quiet, which wasn't unusual but worrying enough that he needed to be kept an eye on. He flatmate was making tea, or something that would perhaps resemble tea if Sherlock had been paying attention to it instead of leaning away to look at John's leg. It was almost funny at how much Sherlock wanted to ask but wouldn't.

John took a deep breath and looked down at the limb under his hands. This ugly, scared, bruised mess that had altered the rest of his life – this was what Sherlock wanted to know about. It was embarrassing, it was painful, it was ugly… and somehow it drew Sherlock's attention. Sherlock had been doing a very good job of helping John when he could (when John would let him). He went up the stairs after John and down the stairs before him, all to make sure that the doctor didn't fall. Or if he did, that Sherlock was there to catch him. Because John was still waking with a cane (this time for a legitimate limp), Sherlock took to carrying what John couldn't: bags up the stairs from Tesco's; the tea tray into the living room when they had guests; John's gym bag to and from his PT sessions. Sherlock did these things without huffing, rolling his eyes, or commenting on the fact that he did them at all. They needed to operate in a new way together, and Sherlock had assimilated accordingly.

And he hadn't even asked to take a peak at John's remaining limp… not even once. Even though he _clearly_ wanted to.

"Sherlock," John sighed, sitting back on the couch. "Did you want a look?"

Sherlock moved all the way into the doorway, tea abandoned and interest keen in his eyes. "Pardon?"

"A look at… this." John waved a hand at his leg. "You want to?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, the gears in his mind turning. "You're sensitive about your leg, John. You don't like looking at it; you don't like to have others look at it, especially not unwrapped, not even your doctor…. Why me? Why now?"

John sighed and started rubbing the oily stuff off his fingers with a rag. "You've been… you've been really great, Sherlock. Since I've come home, I mean. You've helped out, haven't pushed where you shouldn't have, and I know… I know that doesn't come easy for you. So, so if you can go outside _your_ comfort zone to help me, I guess I can go outside _mine_ a bit."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he took a step forward. "I will have to ask you questions."

"'Course you will."

"And I'll have to handle it."

John clicked his teeth in his mouth a few times. "Yeah, just don't expect me to watch." He tossed the rag he was cleaning up with aside and waved impatiently at his friend. "Well, get on with it. But this isn't an experiment!"

"Naturally not," Sherlock soothed, stripping himself of his suit jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves. Didn't want to get any of that menthol crème on his clothes, after all. He sat on the coffee table and spread a clean towel over his lap, moving the stiff board to rest across his knees so he could better examine John's leg. Sherlock slipped his miniature magnifier out of his breast pocket and bent until his nose practically brushed the shiny, new skin.

John made a face but said nothing – he was the one to suggest this, after all. He did, however, grab the evening paper from the floor and move it in front of his face so he couldn't see whatever it was that his flatmate was going to do. It was better to just not watch sometimes.

"Explain to me your nerve damage," Sherlock began, shifting to inspect the healed sutures.

"Uh… well," John took a breath. "The end – can't feel anything on the far end of my knee. The skin on the underside is really sensitive, though – I feel too much there. The rest of it is all muscle pain, but that's fairly expected seeing as I'm physically re-training myself how to walk with something suctioned to it."

"Hmmm." Sherlock slowly reached out a finger and stroked the edge of the puckered skin in front of him, cutting a quick glance to his flatmate to judge for reactions. John sighed.

"Nope."

"How do you know I touched your leg?" Sherlock demanded. John cleared his throat and turned the page.

"You're Sherlock bloody Holmes – _of course_ you touched it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn't mention it further. "You've been prescribed blood-thinners and pain medication – don't think I haven't noticed the additional bottles in our medicine cabinet."

"Well, yeah. Doctor Malcolm doesn't want a clot forming – DVT is a major threat in lower-extremity amputations."

"Deep Venus Thrombosis – a blood clot developing deep within the body, mainly the lower leg and thigh."

"Exactly. The clot could travel to my lungs and cause an embolism."

"Which has a minimum of a six month recovery timeline," Sherlock recited. He'd done research on all of John's new prescriptions as soon as they'd arrived in the flat.

Behind the newspaper, John nodded. "On top of learning how to manage with a prosthetic, it's just not worth the risk."

"But it is worth the nosebleeds and muscle aches that accompany taking blood-thinners? You also aren't taking your pain medication."

"I've never liked taking pain medication," John said with a shrug. "Makes me feel… fuzzy, I guess. And yeah – on a grand scale, having a few nosebleeds and some general soreness is preferable by far than having an increased risk of a pulmonary embolism. The nosebleeds aren't really that bad, anyway."

Sherlock was silent again as he ran a careful palm around to the back of John's knee, noting the small jerk as John's muscles tensed. He really was much more sensitive there. The skin of his leg was smooth and pink, having been stretched and wrapped around the remainder of the limb. John's leg was slightly thinner towards the end and Sherlock could see the shape of the bone. The incisions were neatly stitched together, and the consulting detective took a moment to admire the professional work.

"As I understand it, the primary care givers during the home recovery period for amputees often find themselves in the position of handling the residual limb regularly, for cleaning and wrapping purposes when the patient cannot do it themselves." Sherlock's voice was quiet, almost as if he were talking to himself. John, lowering the newspaper to look at the top of his best friend's bent head, answered in the like.

"Is that your way of asking me why I haven't asked for your help?"

"You're a perfectly capable, healthy man in the beginnings of middle age," Sherlock sniffed, straightening and levelling John with his 'I don't do sentiment' glare. "There is absolutely no logical reason as to why you'd need to ask me."

John studied Sherlock's face for a moment, taking in the mask of indifference. It was the same mask the lanky man adopted whenever Mycroft mentioned the ephemeral 'Mummy' Holmes.

"You have helped, Sherlock," John said, putting his paper aside entirely and leaning forwards some. Sherlock's eyes watched him, strangely unsure. "You've carried the groceries in when you're around; you've helped me both up and down the stairs; you've gone with me to physio when you could. You've helped me, Sherlock – don't think you haven't done your part just because I can take care of my stump myself."

Sherlock's eyes dropped back down to the limb on the plank in his lap. "It's been cold recently," he said in his normal voice, changing the subject. "Lowered circulation causes stiffness."

John bit his lip, wondering if he should press the more emotional issue, then decided to leave it alone. It would only make Sherlock back away entirely, close up like a clam if John tried. He leaned back and picked up his newspaper again. "Yup – and I thought my shoulder was bad after I got shot."

And so the occupants of 221B Baker Street passed the night observing and being observed on their old leather couch. And all the while, Sherlock thought up a hundred different ways he would eventually win against Moriarty, avenging what his friend – his best friend, his only friend, his _John_ – had lost.

* * *

are they or aren't they? more ambiguity to follow. next chapter will deal with Irene Adler. and maybe some more research. anyway, please review and Believe In Sherlock :)


	7. Chapter 6

this would actually put TTG around July/August, instead of April. whateves. you can also play 'Spot the Case' with this chapter. can you find them all? and i realise that i'm removing most of Watson's natural discretion. sorry kids – thems the breaks. and i'm not posting again until after the new year, so have a good one, folks!

* * *

_Nov 27, 2010  
From the Blog of Dr John H Watson_

Sorry for not writing in a while! You all know that Sherlock and I were involved in an explosion about four months ago. Luckily, the only thing that was lost was my leg, which is why I've haven't updated this blog for such a long time. If all is to be believed, Sherlock is no worse for the wear after the bomb. A few burns, a mild concussion – nothing life threatening. The man continues to dash about, solving crime and forgetting the milk, leaving me to hobble after him in his wake. There have been many cases in the past three months that he's worked on, but the only ones of any note are either illegal for me to write up (thanks Mycroft) or far too confusing for me to _try_ writing up (sorry Sherlock). Not that I was actually present for either of them – relearning to walk has taken precedence to walking around theatre sets and racing after mysterious women – but Sherlock's explained it all to me. And he brought me a souvenir ashtray. Not that either of us smoke (as long as I hide the cigarettes), but it's a pretty good souvenir considering where the ashtray is from. Thanks mate!

Again, I'm not allowed to detail the particulars of this particular case, but I can say that Irene Adler is one I think we'll be seeing again. From what Sherlock's said, she was just the match for him. Far less 'boring' than the CIA crazies who decided to break into our flat back in September (as if that would ever be a good idea). Mrs H and I were fine, but it wasn't really a good time. Well, not until Sherlock came home. He showed me that experimenting with gravity can be fun and that just because a country's national bird is the Bald Eagle, it does not mean that its citizens can fly like one. No matter how many times they're flung out a window. (Sorry about the bins, Mrs H.)

Of course, before she slipped away, Irene Adler somehow got her hands on Sherlock's phone and recorded a… well, it was a very distinctive sound and she set it as his text-alert tone. Then she kept texting him, just to make him hear it. It lasted about a week before Sherlock got fed up and switched it back to a nice, silent vibrate. We all have thanked him for it.

In other news, my physiotherapist is big as a house and meaner than my old Drill Sargent. But he keeps me moving and that's rather the point, I suppose. Sherlock comes with me sometimes. He likes to inspect the machines and apparatuses. He can usually tell by the amount of wear on them who has been using what since we were there last.

"Woman between fifty and fifty-five who recently had her knee replaced."

"Young man, late teens most likely, suffering from a skateboarding mishap."

"Oh look, John – another amputee. Sixty plus man… from Brentford by the smell. Diabetes, though, and probably not going to give up that candy bar habit."

It's pretty amusing to see him question the other instructors about it, not that they can actually tell him anything due to confidentiality clauses. Doesn't stop him from getting the information, though.

Nice thing is that with all this working out, I'm in better shape now than how I was when I got back from Afghanistan. Being shot, sick and sent home doesn't do much for one's muscle mass. You'd think being blown up would have a similar effect, but PT's bringing it all back. And building more! Who knew the lumbar region could get so defined. My doctor has told me that because of physio and near daily walks (to Tesco's or just around the park) I'm making good progress and I'll probably be ready for a permanent prosthetic ahead of schedule. It's still about two and a half to three months off, but they want me to start thinking about what I'll need in my everyday life. Sherlock wants me to get the newest version of the C-Leg by Otto Bock, even though it's for transfemoral amputees (that's above-the-knee, for those non-medical readers. Mine is transtibial, which is below-the-knee). He says it's because the leg is built for running and climbing, but I think he wants me to get it because it looks like a metal pirate's leg.

Aye, I be Three-C Watson, captain of the Baker Street Devil. My first mate Sherlock the Bloody and our crew of Irregulars sail the seven seas, solving crime and getting booty…. No. No, that's just strange. Sorry, Sherlock, but it isn't going to happen.

Another leg I've been looking at is a carbon-fibre deal. It's curved and built to spring, and it has floor grips on the bottom so you don't slip around. It is the one more commonly used for running, which knowing Sherlock is something I'll need. It's the type that South African bloke ran in the Para-Olympics with back in 2008 (can you tell I've been doing my research?). He's trying to get into the 2012 Olympics in London, but there's some hubbub about whether his legs would make him better than the other athletes. If he gets in, I think I'll actually watch to see how he does (lord knows there'll be nothing else on the telly).

Anyway, I'll need something a bit more stable for every-day use. Not too sure what yet, but I'm still looking. Luckily Mycroft's paying for it all, so cheers to that.

* * *

_Dec 14, 2010  
From the Blog of Dr John H Watson_

Happy Christmas from Sherlock and me! Well, mainly me – we all know how Sherlock feels about people. We're having a small to-do at our place for it on the 24th, if any of you are interested in dropping by. Nibbles and drinks for everyone (provided by the lovely Mrs Hudson)! Ugly holiday jumpers are a must, so break out those eyesores, ladies and gents. I want to see lumpy snowmen, lopsided antlers and funny looking Santas from here to kingdom come. I might even get Sherlock into one. Found an extra dreadful one with snowflakes on it that I think he'd enjoy. Or rather, I'd enjoy seeing him try to make it look posh. Of course, knowing Sherlock, he'd probably pull it off.

Anyway, hope to see you all there!

* * *

_Dec 21, 2010  
From the Blog of Dr John H Watson_

I almost can't believe it, but Sherlock got me a gift. For Christmas. We're going to see the Kings College Choir at Royal Albert Hall tomorrow evening. And it's funny because I got him almost the same thing – Handle's Messiah Concert tickets also at Royal Albert Hall for the 23rd.

Two beautiful evenings of music, then one with all our friends for Christmas Eve. This is going to be the best holiday I've had in years.

Happy Christmas, everyone.

* * *

_Jan 1, 2011  
From the Blog of Dr John H Watson_

Oh my god. Are the holidays over? We've all survived through New Year's, correct? I can't drink due to my meds, but boy do I wish I could. If only so I could blame the migraine I've got on a hangover. Thank you Holmes Brothers for a truly… memorable evening. I still can't find one of my stump socks – last I saw, it was with a certain Detective Inspector whose first name rhymes with 'peg'. So Lestrade, when you get a moment, please return it. And Sherlock, apologize to Molly – I'm not going to tell you again. And I'm not going to do it for you, either. It was your big mouth so you're the one who has to fix it.

* * *

_Jan 6, 2011  
From the Blog of Dr John H Watson_

Cupcakes from Mrs H, a fresh foot from Molly, an antique prosthetic hand from yours truly, and a suspected murder-suicide with the added twist of a strange, stick-figure code from our friends down at Scotland Yard. Happy birthday, mate.

* * *

_Jan 17, 2011  
From the Blog of Dr John H Watson_

A lot of you were wondering, and I've come to a decision. It's taken a great deal of thought – my duties are constantly changing – but I think this will work out for the best.

Sorry, Sherlock, but we won't be sailing the seven seas with the Otto Bock C-Leg any time soon.

My new leg is suction secured and titanium shafted, with a multi-axle ankle joint and an energy-storing foot. I feel a bit bionic when I wear it. It's good for the normal walking and jogging to and from Tesco's and the Tube station, but also for those random dashes through back alleys, jumping across rooftops and climbing over rocky terrain. Not that I'll be doing a good deal of that anytime soon. I'll also have a carbon fibre one for when I know I'll be doing a lot of flat-surface running.

Just to keep everyone up to date!

* * *

_Feb 15, 2011  
From the Blog of Dr John H Watson_

Yesterday, Sherlock brought home two real human hearts – one for him, one for me – and asked me to demonstrate the correct way to dissect it. He already knew how (he is Sherlock Holmes, let's not forget), but it was nice to stretch my surgical skills after so long. Then we ordered in Thai. And he ate it. It was a good day, over all.

* * *

_March 28, 2011  
From the Blog of Dr John H Watson_

Okay. This is most definitely going to be deleted by Mycroft's people, but I need to write it down anyway, if only for my own mind. You remember what I said about Irene Adler? I was the one who said we'd be seeing her again and I was right (for once, seeing as I live with Sherlock bloody Holmes).

Sherlock was out yesterday afternoon finishing up an experiment at St Bart's when Irene showed up completely out of the blue– she climbed right in through my bedroom window (I think she thought it was Sherlock's room… creepy). I was in the main room tiding up when I heard her messing around with stuff. Almost beaned her with my cane – she looked like a street urchin. I called Mycroft. She asked me not to, practically begged (pulled out all the stoppers with the Big Eyes and water-works), but I had to. I waited until she was in the shower of course – didn't want her to hear me. But I couldn't let her just do whatever she wanted. At least, not after what Sherlock's told me about her.

Sherlock arrived home before any of Mycroft's people could come by and boy, was he angry when he figured out I'd told his brother. He's still pouting on the couch over it, but he's going to have to grow up. She is a known extortionist, a blackmail artist of the highest calibre – I wasn't going to let her mess Sherlock around anymore than she already had. And yes, she had.

Mycroft's got her in custody now and he's not about to let her slip away. Sherlock was even able to crack the code on her phone, which in itself was amazing to watch. (And I can say it like that because I know Mycroft won't let this be posted to the public… or at all.)

They were going back and forth – you know, with the baiting and 'guess what a challenge I am' and 'see how I'm smarter than you' bit that genius people excel at. She wanted him to decode something so she could use it for insurance/protection (read: blackmail). And I had no idea what it was but I could tell Sherlock was interested. He likes codes and puzzles, as everyone knows, and is always looking for a way to one-up someone he thinks is just as smart as he is. It helped, think, that she was giving him the Big Eyes.

I don't know if Sherlock's ever had Big Eyes used on him – not like she was using them, anyway. Some women can use their eyes like… I don't know, tractor beams or something that turns men's brains into mush. Poor Sherlock. I wasn't too concerned because I had called Mycroft, so they couldn't have gotten into much trouble before he came. At least I hope not. We'll never really know and I can't say I'm too upset by that.

Well, all this had nothing to do with me, so I got up to get tea ready (tea, according to Proper British Tradition, is the fixer of all awkward situations). Noticing this, Sherlock broke Irene's Big Eyes tractor beam stare and came into the kitchen to help. Remember that since I've started using a cane again, Sherlock has been amazingly considerate with carrying things (including the tea tray) when I can't, so him following me into the kitchen isn't strange for either of us. But Irene Adler, the woman who almost brought the entire British Government to its knees, starts to throw the sharpest tongued hissy fit I've ever heard. Like a spoilt child! And I live with Sherlock Holmes, king of all spoiled children!

'I can see now why you've never come for dinner. Obviously you've got your little sir at home, needing your assistance. How… domesticated of you. You should say you're off the market, Sherlock; the papers need to start getting that bit right. Not that it matters to me much – I'm an… an equal opportunist, you could say. Though, to be honest Sherlock dear, I can't quiet see the appeal. He is rather… damaged, isn't he? Though certainly what's left of him is quite… well, I guess you could say it's defined. I suppose he'd be inventive – would have to be with that leg of his.'

And she just went on and on about how Sherlock and I _had_ to be a couple because of some rubbish and how little use I was now that I'm a cripple. I'm not going to repeat the rest of it here because it mostly just makes me angry. But it must have made Sherlock angry, too, because he got his _Look_, the 'We Both Know What's Going On Here' Look, and he turns to Irene.

'You're jealous,' he said, and I swear it was a purr with how pleased he sounded (and it's still okay for me to say that about my male flatmate because no one will ever see this. Ever). 'Of course you are. You don't want me spending any attention on John when I should be focused solely on you. You've worked so hard for it, after all, and he's practically useless now. Can't come on cases, can't run after me; _you're_ the one that's done all the hard work, you're the one who merits any notice. Stole my phone; outwitted me when you could; tried to make sure that I thought of you _exactly_ when you wanted me to. But the question, Miss Adler, is _why_. Why have you worked so hard, why have you sent those texts, why have you shown up at my flat looking for my help when you're more than capable of achieving whatever it is you'd like on your own.'

Sherlock brought the phone (Irene's phone that Sherlock had nicked when neither of us were watching – he's good at that) out of his pocket and tapped something into the front screen.

'The answer, Miss Adler, is so simple I'm disappointed it took me this long to figure it out.' He held it up to her.

**I AM  
****S****H****E****R****  
LOCKED**

And the phone opened and nothing blew up. Which it would have done if Sherlock had gotten it wrong. But he didn't. Absolutely brilliant.

Then Mycroft showed up and crashed the party and he'll probably (hopefully?) remove this post by whatever creepy means are at his fingertips. But it was magnificent.

* * *

i maintain the idea that John's blogs wouldn't be completely grammatically correct. he was a doctor, a solider and he's a man – grammar and staying in a fixed tense has never been all that important to him. i mention this because writing in John's slightly incorrect way gave me a bit of a headache and i want people to know that it's intentional. happy christmas and see you in the new year! as ever, please review and Believe In Sherlock :)


	8. Chapter 7

hope everyone had a happy and safe Holiday/New Year. also, thank you to everyone who has favourited and/or reviewed this story so far.

* * *

John sat on the closed toilet, head hung to his chest, holding a wad of tissue paper to his face. It wasn't that the nosebleed was a bad one; those happened in the middle of the night when he was least expecting it. This one was just a lot of blood. He had been climbing the stairs, bags from Tesco's in each hand, when he felt the first drop start to trickle down. John had bolted up the stairs as quick as he could, dropped the bags by the kitchen (no eggs, thank god), and dashed into the loo. Unfortunately, both Holmes brothers had been in the living room as he went by. The door had closed after him, but that didn't mean John didn't know that Sherlock was hovering over it, and Mycroft hovering over Sherlock. They probably were trying to be some Holmesian approximation of concerned.

Embarrassing, is what it was.

"'M fine," John called out. "Just a bit of a mess." Of course, he sounded funny, but Sherlock could understand his flat mate just fine.

"John, that was blood on your face. That isn't _fine_."

"Sherlock –" Mycroft's sigh was clear even through the door.

"Who would have attacked you on your way home? You have made that trip thousands of times – if Moriarty was going to strike, why would he choose _now_?"

"Sherlock, it wasn't –"

"Not an anniversary of any kind," Sherlock was mumbling to himself now, entering his Mind Palace. "Not the day I met you, not the day he met me, not the day you went to Tesco's for the first time after moving in."

John rolled his eyes and tossed the bloody tissue into the loo bin and got a new one. Sherlock was just going to keep working himself up at this rate and nothing would get resolved. Best to stop it before it got too far and Sherlock had himself really climbing the walls.

"Sherlock!" He pulled himself up by the sink and yanked the door open, keeping his head over the bowl just in case. He didn't want to get blood everywhere. "I'm on blood-thinners," he enunciated slowly, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. "Side effects include nosebleeds. You _know_ this."

"As I tried to tell you," Mycroft exhaled. "Not every spec of red is that Irish rabble-rouser plaguing humanity. Or you."

Sherlock was silent, coming back from his oddly emotional reaction to seeing John bloodied.

"Well," he finally started, clearing his throat. "You could have mentioned that on your way up."

"He _did_," Mycroft said, leaning against the wall. He twirled the tip of his umbrella against the floor of the hallway, giving off a pretence of disinterested genius. "He paused on the stairs as his nose started bleeding, then rushed up to catch it before it got anywhere. _Surely_ you caught that, little brother."

"Alright," John butted in before the Holmes' could rile themselves up. "Leave, both of you. This is a medical thing, not a spectator sport. It's neither of your concern. It'll stop eventually so just… go about whatever it was you were doing in the living room. But actually go to the living room; don't do it here in the hall."

"What I have to say concerns the both of you," Mycroft crooned, pushing off from the wall. "Please do join us when you've cleaned up, John."

Sherlock hesitated, blank expression hiding unsure eyes, before turning and following his brother.

It took another fifteen minutes but John was finally able to get the bleeding under control. The nosebleed was probably longer than it should have been, but he didn't feel weak or light headed so John wasn't going to worry so much.

"So what's all this?" John asked, limping his way back through the living room and into the kitchen. Still needed to put the groceries away, after all. Lord knew Sherlock would never do it.

"Two… minor matters, John," Mycroft said, moving to inspect the titles on their bookshelves, "and perhaps a larger one. First, the Adler woman has been neutralized."

"Neutralized?" John turned from putting the milk away. "What, like… she's been killed?"

"More like executed," Sherlock huffed. He was standing up by the window, watching the people pass by below, hands clasped behind his back. If John didn't know better, he would have thought that the news of Adler being executed disturbed his flatmate.

"Sherlock?"

"Not surprising," the younger Holmes sighed. "But one does hate to see genius wasted."

"That woman posed a significant threat, Sherlock," Mycroft argued, and John wondered if they'd had this discussion before. "Not only to national security, but to – "

"What's this other minor matter, Mycroft?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Wait," John moved closer to the doorway, concern on his face. "I know she was giving Sherlock the run-around, but she was seriously a _threat_ to him? How?"

"This other matter, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice was clipped and stern as he overrode John's questions. John threw up his hands and rolled his eyes, turning back to the shopping.

"Whatever. What else did you have for us, Mycroft?"

"A small case for a… well, an up-standing English citizen who has… _unique_ ties to a military research facility in Devon. I shan't go into details, but suffice to say that the military is interested in the resolution of this as quickly and quietly as possible. The young man will be here within two days, Sherlock – please, _try_ to be civil."

"Every case gets the attention and courtesy it deserves," Sherlock proclaimed, once again an emperor to the peasants.

"Which usually isn't much, on the courtesy end," John mumbled into one of the cupboards, missing the dirty look Sherlock shot his way.

"And lastly, gentlemen," Mycroft began, ignoring the bickering; "I have news of Moriarty."

Sherlock and John went still, muscles tensing as they each turned to face The British Government.

"And?" John asked, walking slowly to the kitchen doorway. Mycroft stepped more into the middle of the room before he answered.

"He was apprehended over the weekend with three other known criminals. We believe one other man was in attendance – one Sebastian Moran – but he seems to have slipped away. The other men have admitted guilt to a number of high ranking international crimes. Moriarty, however, has said nothing to anyone. Except to ask for either myself or you, Sherlock."

John's eyes cut to Sherlock. The man's face was blank, but his eyes showed that he was weighing his options.

"Sherlock, you can't seriously be thinking –"

"What will it take for me to see him?" _'Not John,'_ Sherlock told himself. _'If Moriarty believes John is still with me, still important, then he'll be a target. John can't be a target.'_

"Sherlock, no." John shook his head, a feeling of dread settling in his stomach.

"As usual, John, you fail to comprehend the obvious." _'How to I protect him?'_

"What, that you want to go have tea with a mass murdering lunatic?"

'_The internet was useless for this. How do I protect him? What would Mycroft do?'_ Sherlock thought frantically. _'Get him to back down.'_ "Don't exaggerate, John – it only emphasises how simple you are."

"I'm not exaggerating! The old woman in the apartment – when he blew her up, he killed at _least_ twelve other people. That makes him a mass murderer, Sherlock."

"He wants to see me." _'Not John, never John – can never let Moriarty get to John again.'_

"Or Mycroft, and I think that's better. I don't want you anywhere near Moriarty, Sherlock."

'_Mycroft would push him away. To protect him.'_ "You really don't have a voice in this discussion, John."

John reared back, as if Sherlock had slapped him.

"Sherlock," Mycroft breathed out, disappointment saturating his soft tone as he sat in John's regular chair.

"I don't have a voice in this?" John took a deep breath and braced himself against the door jam. "I don't have a voice," he mumbled again, beginning to hike up this trouser leg in jerky, aggravated movements. "I don't have a voice in this, my opinion as to the fate of that… manipulative lizard-man doesn't matter." John un-suctioned the cup of his prosthetic and held it up by the shaft, bright blue stump sock peaking out from his rolled trouser cuff. When he looked up at Sherlock, his eyes were devastated.

"_This_ is what he did, Sherlock. This is what _Moriarty_ did, and you want to see him. You want to _speak_ to him; you want _to figure him out_? He wants to see you because he thinks he can get you to ruin yourself. It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. You see him and he'll get one little thing out of you, and that one thing… he'll use it. That's what Moriarty does. That's what he did during the Pip case. He knew how to get your attention and he made you dance to his tune, Sherlock. And if you go see him, he'll make you do it again." John took a few breaths to calm himself. "It might not be losing a limb next time, Sherlock. Next time… next time it'll be worse."

'_Why isn't he understanding?' _"You're over reacting, John, as usual." Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving closer to John. He had to make John see. "Moriarty was caught because he wanted to be. He has something, some play he wants to start, but he doesn't see what's in front of him. He might think he's manipulating me, but I know the game better than he believes. The little things are infinitely the most important*, John, and Moriarty doesn't see them. _I_ see them, _I_ see the little things, and _that's_ how Moriarty will fall."

John looked up at Sherlock and shook his head. They were toe-to-toe now and Sherlock was shocked for a moment by how old his friend looked. His face was tired and sad. "By giving him what he wants, you're giving him more power, Sherlock. Power over _you_. And I can't stop you, but it would be hell to have to watch that happen again." John turned and did a slow, awkward hopping shuffle down the hallway, closing his bedroom door behind him.

'_This is why I should never try to think like Mycroft,'_ Sherlock told himself standing completely still, barely even breathing. That was not how he had ever planned that conversation to go. In every single scenario Sherlock had come up with, John had been completely fine with him going to face Moriarty one-on-one. Sherlock hadn't believed his brother would be the one to catch Moriarty, but it wasn't completely out of the realm of possibilities. As such, he had planned for a similar conversation, though he hadn't anticipated having it quite so soon. But because it was sooner than Sherlock had planned for, everything had gone sideways.

This changed things. With John so adamantly against Sherlock seeing Moriarty, he'd have to take the subtler approach. An altercation between Consulting Detective and Consulting Criminal was bound to happen, but perhaps the indirect way would be a more elegant reply to Moriarty's opening move.

Fooling Moriarty into believing that he – and thus their game – meant nothing to Sherlock, or that Mycroft was the one pulling the strings… that might be better. It would at least draw the man's eye from involving John again. In theory, Sherlock could leave John behind. Keep his crumbling rook in the corner, never played, ignored. It would be a simple thing to make everyone believe that it that because John can no longer physically able to keep up as he once had (no longer the white knight of former glory), he was useless to Sherlock. And everyone would believe it, even John. But the actualization of that theory would be too much for Sherlock – he couldn't leave John now, not after everything they'd been through.

There was another possibility of John being convinced that he had to leave for his own safety – leave Sherlock, leave London, perhaps take up residence in Whitehaven as he had once planned. The king piece stays in the back, after all, safely out of play. It would be the same as before: convince one and all that John was useless to Sherlock now, only John would be aware of what was going on. But Sherlock didn't think that would work. The blonde man had an over developed sense of honour that wouldn't allow for what he would see as abandoning his best friend to the mercy of a madman. So they had to stick together.

And Sherlock refused to forfeit, so a confrontation was inevitable. The two most powerful pieces on the board coming to a clash, attacking each other from all sides. The question was how direct would that initial confrontation be? Openings set the tone for the whole game, after all. This was where Mycroft would come in. Damn it.

"I want a complete transcription of the discussion, of _every_ discussion anyone has with him," Sherlock finally said, barely turning his head to face his brother. "Don't give him anything, not even if he offers you information on his larger criminal operations in return. I need to know what it is he's looking for before we…"

"Before we make any sudden moves," Mycroft nodded. "I understand that, Sherlock." Mycroft stood and gathered up his coat, briefcase and umbrella. "And might I just say," he added, turning for the door, "that I am quite pleased you're taking this route, even though I understand it isn't for my benefit."

Sherlock didn't move until he heard the main door close behind his brother. Then he seemed to deflate, all his air coming out in a sigh. His heart, his head – his body was so heavy all of a sudden. But he quickly shook it off (Sherlock Holmes didn't get _tired_, after all) and trudged softly towards John's bedroom. Sherlock didn't bother announcing himself before entering. He never had before and it wasn't as if John wouldn't know it was him.

John was stretched out on his back, one arm over his eyes, the other hand on his chest. His bedside lamp was on and it cast a soft orange glow around the room. John's metal leg was leaning against the small table alongside his cane, and his trousers were still folded up to expose his incomplete limb. He didn't move as Sherlock came in and sat at the edge of the bed.

John didn't want to talk to Sherlock. He knew the man was going to do things his way; that's how the Holmes' were in general. The only reason Sherlock would come into his room like this would be to convince John how right he was. And what John hated – hated almost more than anything – was that Sherlock _would_ be right. Whatever argument Sherlock threw at John would be sound and logical and _right_. John had a feeling, an instinct, and that meant nothing in the face of valid reasoning and empirical evidence. But no matter what Sherlock said – however right he was – John knew that Moriarty would work whatever evil he had planned and it would be so much worse if Sherlock went to see him.

"John," Sherlock began, his voice taking on a strange hesitant quality to it. It was a tone John had last heard in the hospital, when he woke up after the bomb blast. Sherlock put a light, tentative hand on John's right ankle. _'Stable, alive, safe… John.'_ "Mycroft will be meeting with Moriarty. We don't know what he wants yet, so Mycroft will transcribe their conversation and bring it here. We will figure out what it is that Moriarty is looking for."

"Thought my opinion didn't matter." John's voice was a bit rough, and he knew he sounded like a child who'd had his favourite toy taken away. He hated to act that way, but what Sherlock said had really hurt.

Sherlock's hand tightened on his ankle briefly. He wanted to lean over to bury his face in John's shoulder, wanted to feel the soft, comforting warmth of friend and jumper surround him, but he didn't. That wouldn't be what this John would want. Sherlock didn't like this John, the one who didn't want to speak to him, who closed himself off so entirely. . It had happened enough times during their friendship and it never failed to make his chest tight like something was sitting on it. This wasn't the time to give into that feeling, the need for comfort. A small part of him hoped there would be another time for it, a chance to lean into John and steal his solace. He didn't like it – sentiment, after all – but Moriarty was bigger than sentiment and John was bigger than his pride.

"I'm not going to beg, John," his voice rumbled as he stared at the floor. "You wanted to be included but I won't beg. And I'm not going to apologize for wanting to keep you safe."

"Keeping me out of things doesn't make me safe, Sherlock," John sighed, bringing his arm down from his eyes so he could see Sherlock's bent head. "It makes me ignorant and unaware of my surroundings. An unarmed solider is one the first one killed."

"You're not a solider anymore, John," Sherlock groaned, dragging an irritated hand over his face. "You're my… John, and I…. I looked it up, you know – how to protect a friend."

John offered a sardonic smile. "Bet you didn't find much."

"I can't _tell_ you how annoying it was to find so little." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So I thought – and _never_ tell him this – I thought about what Mycroft would do. Mycroft has a way of diffusing problems before anyone knows they're even a possibility, and I figured I might be able to do something similar. However…"

"However, you forgot that I'm a grown up and can take care of myself. You don't have to protect me, Sherlock."

"Of _course_ I do," Sherlock declared, raising his head to look at John. "Since meeting me you've partaken in a killing and cover up, been kidnapped by Chinese smugglers, been kidnapped by a _lunatic_, strapped to a bomb and subsequently blown up. You've lost your leg. The next time, you might…"

John took a deep breath and licked his lips. "I prefer this kind of life, Sherlock. I was never meant to be a civilian.** We've chosen this path and there are people who are going to come after us because of it. Best to be prepared and know when we need to act. Together. None of that going off on your own garbage, Sherlock. That is not how friends protect each other; that's not how _we_ protect each other."

* * *

*the little things…: Holmes says it in ACD's _A Case of Identity_.

**I was never meant to be a civilian: comes from one of the blog posts John wrote. or rather, the show wrote and said it was John. you know the ones i mean. it was in the _TBB_ post, near the end.

plus all the little chess references, for the killer cabbie in _ASiP_. and relationship ambiguity! so much. and a fight! well, sort of. anyway, please review and Believe In Sherlock :)


	9. Chapter 8

argh. downright appalling lack of updateable material. work and school and Life and other side projects have taken over a bit. one of the classes i'm taking is on Victorian Lit, and would you believe that we're not even _looking_ at Sherlock Holmes or Sir ACD? no even as an honorable mention?! dreadful - absolutely dreadful. also, i'd mention that nothing you recognize is mine, but... well... lets not by stupid. this is fanfiction.

* * *

"You have a seat, Mr Knight," John directed, limping his way into the kitchen. "It's a bit brisk out – I'll put the kettle on."

"You'll have to excuse my colleague, Mr Knight," Sherlock said with a tone of distain, though his eyes followed the form of his flatmate. John had been walking without his cane for two weeks now, but Sherlock was still cautious of him. "If it were up to him, we'd drown in the stuff."

"I… I don't mind," Henry stuttered, trying and faling to get comfortable in the hard-backed chair he'd been led to. "Cuppa could be nice, I guess. Thanks. And… everyone just calls me Henry."

"Henry, then. Do you take milk and sugar? I'm afraid we don't have lemon – Sherlock used them all."

"It was an experiment, John – a man's life depended on it."

"That's what you always say, Sherlock."

"Because that's what it always _is_."

"Ah… just-just black is fine." Henry ran a hand over his head, still a bit frazzled from his early-morning train ride. And he was beginning to suspect that there was more than just work between the consultant and the doctor. Not that it mattered any – Henry had seen all sorts of people in the support group his therapist Louise had him join.

"So," John called from the kitchen, "I understand you brought something with you?"

"Y-yes. They, ah… the BBC made a documentary on the Baskerville labs. They did a bit on the animal experimentation that's rumoured to go on there. They, um… they interviewed me. You know… because of what happened when I was a boy."

"And what, exactly, did happen when you were a boy, Mr Knight?" Sherlock sounded pointed and bored. He hated owing Mycroft favours. The clients were always so tedious. Already, Sherlock was able to spot the childhood trauma, the therapist, the nightmares and dismissed them. This would be a boring case.

"It's – it's on the tape. I could just play it for you." Henry gestured to his bag on the floor. He'd brought it this morning just to show them, after all. And he was quite proud of how he'd handled the interview.

"What did you see?" Sherlock reiterated. "You must have seen something – secret military base, mysterious and violet death of at least one parent. It's written all over you."

"W-well, yes, but I can show you. The docu-"

"I prefer to do my own editing, thanks."

"Sherlock," John said as he limped his way back into the living room, full tea tray in his hands. "Let him breathe. Henry's obviously had a difficult night, and probably had barely any breakfast."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "And how, my dear Watson, do you figure that?"

"Oh no, Sherlock. The last time I tried that, you-" John shook his head, jaw nearly set in that determined look he got when Sherlock asked him to do something he didn't agree with. As always, Sherlock overrode him.

"_John_."

John blinked, let out a heavy sigh and set the tray on the coffee table in front of Henry. In addition to tea, he's also added a small plate of toast, a jar of his favourite strawberry jam and a tiny pot of honey. "Well, alright. If you don't mind me saying so, you certainly look tired, Henry. A bit peaky, really. And you're here awfully early – you rang the doorbell around 9:10. Considering morning traffic, that would put you at Paddington Station at 9-ish and out of Devon at 6:30, if the train was running on time. As for breakfast… well, it would've been train-food. Couldn't've been all that good."

Sherlock grinned, proud and smug. "Very good, John. Naturally you missed all the relevant data," John rolled his eyes, "but your conclusions are correct."

"How… how did you know I arrived at Paddington Station?" Henry asked, mystified. He'd heard Sherlock Holmes was the detective, not his assistant. And true to form, it was Sherlock who opened his mouth first.

"Oh, that wasn't any large stretch – it's the closest train station. Now, you could have hopped on the Tube and come out at the Baker Street stop around the corner, but it's hard to judge times when you're not used to the Underground. Easier to just take a cab." Sherlock gave a smug smile to his flatmate. "Your earlier assumptions were awfully close, John. Well done. However, without substantial evidence to back it up, it's all really just a guess, no matter how good. Now allow me."

John, having had quite enough, discouraged his friend with a quiet and firm voice. "Sherlock, don't show off."

"I am a show off, John; it's _what I do_."

"Well, lets give it a miss for now – you can fill me in on all the obvious clues I missed after Henry's told us what's wrong. Henry, why don't you start from the beginning?"

Henry balked; this wasn't at all going the way he'd imagined it. But he'd heard Sherlock Holmes was the best and Louise thought it was a good idea. "W-well… my father and I used to take walks around the Hallow at night. It's a strange place, Dewer's Hallow. It makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid."

"Skip to the end," Sherlock moaned, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling, throwing Henry off once more.

"Par-pardon?"

"Look, if I wanted poetry, I'd read John's blog posts – much funnier. Now give me the relevant bits and leave the rest out."

"In your own time," John added, trying to make the lad feel more at ease.

"But quite quickly." Henry must have baulked too long for Sherlock, for the man rolled his eyes, leaned forward and started to tell Henry all about himself. "Fine. Your mother died when you were a very small child – you didn't really know her. Spent most of your time with your father, who was also killed when you were a child, though older than you were when you're mother passed. Right in front of you, in fact. I'd say when you were around nine years old. And while you were on one of those walks, I presume, seeing as you decided to start with that. You live close to a military research facility; he probably found out something he shouldn't have and was killed for his trouble. But you're here to find out why, and what exactly was his killed for. Well, I do so _hate_ to inform you, Mr Knight, but you won't be learning what your father was killed for discovering. State secrets, and all that. I believe you can show yourself out? Good day."

Henry sputtered as Sherlock got up and sailed into the kitchen to check on one of his experiments.

"Mr Holmes, I know what killed my father – I was there! And I'm not crazy for having seen it, I know I'm not."

"Well, whatever it was –"

"Mr Holmes, it was a gigantic hound!"

Sherlock stopped and, slowly, turned back. "Repeat that. Exactly as you said it, repeat what you just said."

Henry gulped and took a breath. "Mr Holmes," he began slowly, "it was a gigantic hound."

Sherlock looked at John and smiled a slow, shark-like smile. "Well, John. Go pack your bags. It seems we have a hound to find."

* * *

While John was glad that Sherlock was the one driving all the way out to Dartmoor, not being able to stretch for hours at a time had left him feeling stiff and achy. He was certainly glad he had packed his cane – he needed it after an almost solid five hours in a car. John tried not to lean on it too much as he went to the inn they would be staying at. Cross Keys offered vegetarian faire and Baskerville Hound Tours, as well as rustic atmosphere and cosy rooms for rent.

"John Watson," he introduced himself to the man behind the ledger counter. It doubled as a bar but he didn't look too busy. "I called about a couple of rooms earlier?"

"Oh yeah," the large, gruff looking man smiled and brought out a pen. "I wrote that one down myself. It's Billy who usually does it – can hardly read my own hand writing most times."

John didn't know what to say about that so he just hummed instead. In the grand mirror above the bar, he saw Sherlock wander in, inspecting the doorframe and windows as he went.

"Unfortunately," the man behind the counter said, sounding apologetic, "we only have one room available. It's a King, which looks like you'll need it with your lanky lad there." The man's face was open and kind, not in the least bit teasing. That didn't make it any easier to swallow.

"Uh, no," John shook his head, smiling to be polite. "We're not –"

"Is yours a snorer?" a smaller, ginger haired man came up to them, wearing a white chef's coat and red neckerchief. "Probably why you wanted separate rooms. Gary, God love him, snores to bring the rafters down." A long suffering sigh and a doting smile were exchanged.

John, realising it was better to smile and nod than to argue a point no one seemed to believe any way, gave them a tight grin. "The room keys, then?"

"Oh right." The large one, Gary, bent behind the counter, his partner wandering off to the kitchen. John looked down for a moment and noticed a receipt sticking out from the paper-catch – one for an abnormally large amount of meat for a vegetarian establishment. An amount of meat that perhaps a large dog would require over the course of a week or so. He nicked it from the stack before Gary straightened up again, smiling benignly as he accepted the keys.

"Ta. And, uh… could I get a tea and a coffee to go? Maybe with one of those carry-things." John held up his cane for show. "Can't hobble and hold."

"I'm here, John." Sherlock materialized at his elbow. "There's a fellow over there," he nodded discretely out the door, "possibly a local boy, definitely has a gambling habit. He's touting that he saw the hound for himself. If you play along, we might get ourselves a free tour." Sherlock looked at John. He didn't ask out loud but the question was clear.

"Great," John smiled as he took the proffered coffee from Gary and handed it to his flatmate. "I could use a bit of a stretch after that drive." Sherlock grinned, satisfied.

"Then let's go bait a better."

* * *

can i just once more mention how terrible it is that i haven't had updateable material? i'm quite positive it shows in this chapter. i'm wholly dissatisfied with it. but i can't watch HotB as many times as i need to AND still take care of everything else. so here's an intro to it. i have an idea of where i want the rest of the episode to go, but it won't be written yet. poor excuse, but it's all i've got for right now. *le sigh* anyway, please review and Believe In Sherlock :) (IT'S (almost) MARCH!)


	10. Chapter 9

next chapter. moving things right along, even if they don't fit exactly. this episode is going far slower than i'd like, seeing as i've got all this other Real Life stuff to take care of. poor quality chapter - i'm so sorry.

* * *

John sighed and kicked another rock. Climbing all over the moor was not his idea of a clear spring evening, but at least it wasn't too cold. Cold meant his shoulder stiffened and his stump seized up under him. Henry seemed to know where he was going, which was useful. John couldn't help but feel bad for him – the lad had enough troubles without adding twilight jaunts to his own personal nightmare into the mix. While John was much more a body doctor than a head doctor, even he could tell that Henry was a bit more than a little neurotic.

And this Dewer's Hollow was certainly something out of a horror novel. Creepy mist, dense trees, strange animal noises – it was enough to frighten anyone to death if they weren't careful. The "Danger: Keep Out" signs added a Wizard of Oz-type quality, though; he almost expected to see one that said "I'd Turn Back If I Were You." And curse Harry for having sat on him as a kid to make him watch it with her.

Roots and rocks littered the forest floor, enough to throw a person literally off balance. It made John glad that his permanent prosthetic was more robust than not, allowing him both stability and momentum when following after Sherlock. He had left his carbon fibre running prosthetic at home for this case – the ground wouldn't be even enough for it. Neither of them were nearly as heavy as the preparation prosthetic had been, which was simply lovely in John's opinion.

Another lovely thing, and John would probably never actually get the chance to say this, was that Sherlock didn't expect him to lag behind. Sherlock didn't walk slower to wait for John, but he also didn't run ahead as was his custom. He kept a steady pace and while he never actively checked back to see if John was keeping up, he occasionally threw a comment over his shoulder for John to respond to. Maybe. Sherlock was also in the habit of speaking to John even when John wasn't around. But mainly Sherlock expected John to keep up with him, so John did.

Until the mist came. It was all down hill from there.

* * *

_Medic!_

_And pain and pain and –_

_Come at once, if convenient._

_We're going to get this bleeding under control, soldier; you'll be just fine._

_But Johnny, I don't _want_ to go home! I'm not even that drunk._

_The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes._

_Shots fired, shots fired!_

_I-I-I-I'm, stayin' alive, stayin' alive…_

_I have not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing._

_Oh god, the pain_

_John, wake up. We have a case._  
_But it's two in the morning, Sherlock._  
_Crime waits for no man._

_And do you know what I'm going to do to your precious detective, Dr Watson?_

_Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age._

_This, gentlemen, is the standard version of the Browning Hi Power GP35, also known as the L9A1._

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_We represent the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild._

_It was going to swallow him_

_John, snap out of it. We're on a case._

_The C8 Carbine felt strange in his hands… he didn't even know what he was doing here… he wasn't infantry; he was RAMC._

_Come, John! The game is afoot!_

_Shots and barking and explosions and oh god he couldn't feel his leg_

_Darth Vader breathing, but Sherlock wouldn't know what that was and isn't that funny?_

_I will burn the _heart_ out of you._

_John, you're fine. Stop it._

_Bruising, and he hated the bruising, and PT was a bitch_

_We don't want to play with you, Johnny. Beth is my friend – go find your own._

_I can't make bricks without clay!_

_Brandy, Dr Watson?_

_John, **JOHN**!_

* * *

John's eyes snapped open and suddenly he remembered where he was and what he was doing there. He and Sherlock were on a case and there was a dog and a secret government facility. He and Sherlock and Henry Knight were tromping through the woods and suddenly the mist started and brought nightmares with it. John focused on the face in front of him – Sherlock's hands were holding his upper arms (not his shoulders – he knew better) and those silver-blue-green eyes were burning a hole into John's face.

"John."

"Yeah, right here. What happened?"

"You… you," Henry stammered from behind them.

"You had a psychotic episode," Sherlock explained without emotion. "You stumbled, fell and pulled your gun, started yelling at the air."

John jolted under Sherlock's hands but the consulting detective didn't let go. "I… I shot at you?"

"You finger never left the trigger guard and you kept the safety on."

"W-Why…"

"I have a theory," Sherlock explained, eyes taking on a slightly maniacal gleam in the moonlight. "But I need to get back into Baskerville to confirm." Sherlock studied John's face for another moment. He was sweating, his naturally tan complexion pale in the forest moonlight, pulse beating at an extremely elevated rate, pupils blown – John was terribly frightened. "You're fine, John," Sherlock told him, trying to soften and lower his voice. "It's all fine."

* * *

Sherlock half carried John back to the Cross Keys Inn, prosthetic in hand as John's empty trouser leg fluttered with their awkward movements.

"There's a back door we can go through," Sherlock said and began turning them towards the kitchen entrance. "There will be stairs up that end and once we get to our room you can manage your leg and go to sleep. I have a phone call to make."

John's jaw clenched and ticked on one side before he answered. "I'm sorry you had to pause the case to take care of me, Sherlock," he bit out, voice tight with more than just pain. "I didn't mean to distract you."

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied quickly. "In fact, you illuminated a detail I had been wondering about for some time." The lanky detective manoeuvred them through the door and passed a startled Billy.

"Oh!" the small bearded man exclaimed. "Is he alright?"

John focused on the floor in front of him as his face began to heat. Thankfully, Sherlock answered.

"Just a small tumble," Sherlock claimed, charming their host with an insincere smile. "We'll just go up the back way."

"Alright." Billy nodded but still looked worried. "You take care of him, but if you need anything just call down."

"Will do."

The pair stumbled into their room and John broke away from his friend, landing hard on the bed. Sherlock began riffling through John's bags, tossing various things onto the mattress as he came to them.

"I've figured it out, John," Sherlock declared, head half-buried in John's medical case, not watching where he pitched the menthol creme, elastic bandages, or pain medication. "The mist, the nightmares – it all makes sense. But I have to be sure. Oh, I hate it, but I'll have to call Mycroft. I'll find proof of my theories in Baskerville, John, but I need to get in there first." Sherlock spun towards John, intent on pontificating some more, but paused. "Why aren't you taking care of your leg?"

John sat on the bed, drooping shoulders and surrounded by his medical supplies, watching the floor. He hadn't been listening to Sherlock – the only thing he could really hear was the voice in his own head.

_'You're useless, Johnny-boy,'_ the ugly voice was saying. '_You think you're normal and everything's going well. No one else was affected like you were, though. You're not a whole man, you couldn't be if you tried. Sherlock had to stop his investigation to carry you back to the hotel like a baby. People who don't even know you pity you, like the man down stairs. What are you even doing here? Go home, go to London. You're doing nothing here but slowing Sherlock down.'_

Once again, Sherlock tried to read John's mind before John could even open his mouth to say anything. Oddly enough, he was slightly off the mark "John, you're perfectly fine. We've established your safety – you know Mycroft wouldn't let anything really exciting happen. Now take care of your leg. You fell hard earlier and if you don't work the muscle, you'll seize up in the morning."

John growled and swiped the medical supplies off the bed. "You don't understand, Sherlock! I can't stay here. I'm packing my bags and going back to London. I'm doing nothing here but slowing you down. One bloody fall and I can't even get up on my own. I'm calling a cab in the morning. You can finish this one without me."

Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration and groaned. "Oh for God's sake. I don't have time for your emotional instability, John! Get yourself together – I need to bribe that oaf of a brother of mine."

"It's always the case, isn't it?" John spat out. Suddenly, he was very angry with Sherlock for focusing on the case, but he had no idea why. "It's the chase, it's the thrill, the _addiction_ to it!"

Sherlock stepped back and looked at John blankly. John knew instantly that what he'd said had been wrong, completely out of line, but as he opened his mouth to apologise, to take it all back, Sherlock turned around and walked out of the room. The door closed silently behind him, resounding like a gunshot in their hotel room.

* * *

it's so much shorter than i think it should be. but i can't keep dragging the poor thing out, you know. anyway, please review and Believe In Sherlock. (it'scomingit'scomingthere'saweddingi'mscared)


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